


not quite crackerjack surprise

by sara_wolfe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Little Shit, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Warlock is a Little Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 14:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20360134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_wolfe/pseuds/sara_wolfe
Summary: Boxes hold surprises; some better than others.





	not quite crackerjack surprise

**_1982_**  
“Crowley, what’s with the box?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale can see Crowley freeze, mid-step. The box in his arms gives a suspicious wiggle that it probably shouldn’t be capable of on its own.

“You mean this box?” Crowley asks, badly feigning innocence. 

“Yes, that box,” Aziraphale replies. 

Putting down his book, Aziraphale strolls over to where Crowley is practically squirming in place with guilt. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying the demon’s discomfort just a tiny bit. Without a word, Aziraphale tips back the flap on the box with a finger, raising an eyebrow at Crowley as he looks at the sleeping litter of puppies nestled down at the bottom. 

“They were abandoned in an alleyway!” Crowley blusters, defensively, when Aziraphale remains silent. “It’s pouring down rain, angel. I couldn’t just leave them out there - I may be a demon, but I’m not heartless!”

“That doesn’t explain what they’re doing in my shop,” Aziraphale points out. 

“I can’t keep ‘em at my place,” comes the immediate answer. “Too many plants they could chew on to poison themselves.”

“And what’s to keep them from chewing on my books?” Aziraphale asks, getting a nonchalant shrug. 

“Nothing, really,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale finds himself biting back an exasperated sigh. “C’mon, angel,” Crowley wheedles, giving him the same kind of look that Aziraphale was used to using to get his own way. It’s disconcerting to have the look turned around on him. “They’re so tiny, and helpless, and they need you. Love all creatures great and small, remember?”

“Those puppies are not staying here,” Aziraphale says, trying to sound stern, but Crowley’s face falls like Aziraphale had just kicked one of those puppies, and his stomach gives an uncomfortable twist. “Not for long,” he amends, only a little reluctantly, telling himself that he’s just being a good angel, loving all of God’s creatures and all that. It’s not at all about the way Crowley fairly lights up when he gives in. 

“Just for the night,” Crowley promises, although Aziraphale already knows that’s not true. He’ll be lucky if he’s not stuck with puppies for months. 

“You’ll find them homes, tomorrow,” Aziraphale continues, trying once again for stern but badly failing.

“Of course,” Crowley says, and then a Look flickers over his face. “I have to make sure they’re the right homes, though,” he temporizes, and Aziraphale bites back a sigh. “Can’t just send the little darlings home with anyone.”

“Tomorrow,” Aziraphale repeats, giving Crowley a Look.

(The puppies stay for six months. Aziraphale loses two books, three sets of socks, and more midnight snacks than he can even count. But he’s never seen Crowley smiling more, so it’s all worth it in the end.)

* * *

**_2004_**  
”I don’t need you to get me ready for school, anymore,” Warlock had insisted. ”I’m six, and I’m not a baby, and I c’n do it myself, Nanny.”

So now Crowley is sitting out on the couch in the living room, distractedly reading the paper while he directs the majority of his concentration toward the bedroom where Warlock is supposed to be getting himself dressed for school. Supposed to, because there’s been a conspicuous lack of noise from Warlock’s bedroom down the hall for the last several minutes, and Crowley’s about five seconds away from getting up and investigating. Not that he doesn’t trust his little Antichrist, but - no, he really doesn’t trust his little Antichrist. 

He turns another page in the newspaper, trying to pretend that he’s not eavesdropping, when he finally hears footsteps behind him. Two pairs of footsteps, which in itself is suspicious, because Warlock had been alone in his bedroom. Even more suspicious, the footsteps are clearly trying and failing to be stealthy. 

“Bye, Nanny!” Warlock calls out, after he and his co-conspirator have almost gotten to the front door. “Don’t worry about taking me to school, Brother Francis said he’d do it!”

Busted. Crowley doesn’t even have to look to see the guilty look on Aziraphale’s face. He looks anyway, just to savor the moment.

“What’s in the box, dear?” he asks, when he sees Warlock clutching a battered shoebox to his chest. Warlock squeaks, hastily trying to hide the box behind his back, like Crowley hadn’t already seen it. 

“…nothin’,” Warlock mutters, not meeting Crowley’s eyes. Crowley fights back an amused chuckle. 

“What’s in the box, Brother Francis?” he asks instead.

“Um,” Aziraphale says.

“Um,” Warlock says.

_“Ribbit,”_ says the box. 

Crowley presses his lips together tightly. He knows outwardly that he looks stern and disapproving, which is good, because he’ll take on a desk job in Hell before he admits how close he is to howling with laughter. He has an image to maintain, after all. 

“It’s for show and tell,” Aziraphale finally says, as Warlock lifts the lid of the shoebox enough for Crowley to see the impressively large frog sitting placidly on a bed of grass. “I found the little fellow out by the pond, and I thought young Warlock might want to show the rest of his class and tell them all about frogs.”

Crowley purses his lips, more for show than anything else. “That certainly sounds educational,” he says, slowly. “Is that all you’re planning on doing with the frog, young man?” He directs a sharp look at Warlock, who squirms under his knowing gaze. 

“I was gonna let ‘em go in the teachers’ lounge,” Warlock finally admits, and Crowley beams while Aziraphale gasps in offended shock. 

“Well, then,” Crowley says, replacing the lid on the shoebox (but discreetly creating a few holes so the poor frog gets some fresh air). “With mischief like that in the making, how can I possibly say no?”

He sees Warlock and Aziraphale out the door, watching patiently while Warlock skips all the way down the walkway, waving happily at him. Then, he closes the door softly behind them and, after assuring that he’s alone in the house, proceeds to laugh himself silly for the next several minutes.

* * *

_**2019**_  
It’s been six months since their almost-Armageddon, and Crowley can’t remember ever having been happier. 

Part of that, he knows, is the freedom that comes with finally being free of Hell. No more demons breathing down his neck, no more worrying about getting found out and dragged into the depths. For the first time since his Fall, Hell is little more than a distant fear in the back of his mind. 

The other part of his happiness, far bigger than the first, is all due to Aziraphale. Crowley would be the last one to ever call himself sappy, yet even he has to admit that his behavior toward Aziraphale has become, of late, rather more romantically-minded than usual. They’ve been spending more time together than ever before, Crowley hanging around the bookshop with Aziraphale while he does everything he can not to sell his beloved books, and then Aziraphale coming home with him to his flat nearly every night. They share meals, they share a bed (even if Aziraphale doesn’t usually sleep and spends the nights reading), and Crowley knows it’s only a small step before they’re sharing the rest of their lives together. 

At least he hopes so, as he closes his fingers around the tiny box that’s been in his pocket for the last three days. 

Aziraphale had called him this morning, after one of their increasingly rare nights apart, asking him to go on a picnic lunch in the park. It’s not Crowley’s original plan - he’d gotten an actual reservation at the Ritz and had planned on popping the question over dessert - but he’s willing to adapt easily enough. Anything for Aziraphale. He even convinces the chef at the Ritz to make him a meal to-go, no demonic miracles involved. (Okay, maybe one tiny one, but he knows Aziraphale is going to love the fresh strawberries.)

He’s at the park, now, picnic basket on the grass at his feet while he waits for Aziraphale to show up. He’d offered to go and pick the angel up, but Aziraphale had insisted on meeting him there; had a small errand to run, he’d said, and he didn’t want to inconvenience Crowley. 

Crowley thinks it might be worse, though, sitting and waiting at the park, nothing to do but feel his anxiety rise. If he has to wait even one more minute-

“Crowley!”

Crowley practically slumps in relief at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice. He waves to let Aziraphale know he heard him, grabbing the basket off the ground as Aziraphale hurries over to join him. 

“Were you waiting long?” Aziraphale asks, as he leans in to kiss Crowley on the cheek. 

As always, Crowley finds himself taken aback every time Aziraphale is freely, openly affectionate with him. They hadn’t been able to indulge in this kind of casual intimacy for a long time, and it’s still a pleasant shock every time it happens now. 

“Not long,” Crowley replies, and it’s almost the truth. He’d only been there for a short while, even if it had felt like far longer. “Get your errand taken care of?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, but his gaze shifts quickly to the side, like he’s trying to hide something. 

Crowley’s always found it fascinating, watching Aziraphale try to be sneaky when he’s so gloriously bad on it. But, he’ll let Aziraphale keep his secrets for now; Aziraphale will tell him sooner or later, anyway. He won’t be able to resist. 

“Shall we go to lunch, then?” he asks, instead, lifting the basket for emphasis. “I found us the perfect spot on the far side of the lake.”

“You know, my dear, I asked you to come to lunch with me,” Aziraphale reminds him, linking his arm loosely through Crowley’s as they stroll through the park. “I would have been more than happy to get the food.”

“I didn’t mind,” Crowley tells him. “Besides, I got you a few surprises.”

“Oh, what are they?” Aziraphale asks, his free hand drifting toward the basket, but Crowley easily pulls it out of reach.

“If you look now,” he scolds, “they won’t be surprises.”

Aziraphale pouts dramatically, but Crowley presses a soft kiss to the side of his head and he all but melts after a moment. “I love you, you know,” Aziraphale says, like it’s just that easy, and he didn’t just take Crowley’s breath away. 

“I love you, too,” Crowley says, a secret thrill running through him at being able to finally say the words out loud. 

When they reach the spot he’d staked out earlier, he spreads the blanket out on the grass with a gallant gesture that makes Aziraphale laugh. It’s a fairly large blanket, but Aziraphale sits close enough that he’s pressed against Crowley from shoulder to hip. Crowley finds that he doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

He lays out their picnic lunch, watching as Aziraphale’s face lights up with each dish that emerges from the wicker basket. He’d specifically requested finger foods, and the chef hadn’t disappointed, filling the basket with small, bite-sized pieces that even Crowley is willing to admit looks delicious. They eat in peace for several minutes, or rather Aziraphale eats while Crowley nibbles a bit here and there and indulges himself in watching the joy on Aziraphale’s face with each bite. 

Crowley had promised himself that he’d be patient until the end of the meal; it doesn’t matter when he proposes, after all. But he finds himself growing anxious the more time goes by, and the third time he catches himself going for his pocket, he realizes that he’s not going to be able to wait until Aziraphale is done eating.

“Angel,” he starts, hesitantly, “angel, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

“Yes, darling?” Aziraphale asks, putting down his plate and wiping his fingers on his napkin as he gives Crowley his undivided attention. Crowley may have forgotten how intimidating it is to be the center of Aziraphale’s full attention, and for a moment he’s struck speechless. 

“Um,” he says, his carefully-prepared speech flying completely out the window. “I, uh, I wanted to ask you-”

Words have failed him. His voice is gone. Perhaps he should have included some liquor in the basket, to shore up his courage. All he can do is dig into his pocket for the box, screwing his eyes shut tightly as he shoves his hand in Aziraphale’s direction.

He can feel Aziraphale’s fingers brush gently against his palm as he takes the box, the top opening with a soft pop. There’s a moment of unbearable silence, and then Aziraphale lets out a soft chuckle. 

Out of all the reactions Crowley had anticipated, laughter hadn’t even been in the picture. He can feel his non-functional heart stop in his chest, and he goes cold as he tries to make sense of what’s going on. If he could discorporate himself on the spot, he’d do it right now.

Aziraphale must see something on his face, because suddenly his hands are on Crowley’s shoulders, holding him tightly. “Sweetheart, no,” he murmurs, a thumb brushing across Crowley’s cheek, wiping away the tears he didn’t even know were falling. “Dearest, I love you. Of course I want to marry you.”

“Then why-” Crowley starts, but then he trails off when he finally opens his eyes to see Aziraphale holding not one but two ring boxes in his hand. One of which he holds out to Crowley with a hopeful expression on his face. “Oh,” Crowley says, feeling suddenly very foolish. 

“I didn’t mean to laugh,” Aziraphale says, as Crowley slowly, carefully takes the box from his outstretched hand. “But I’d asked you on this picnic so that I could propose to you, and here you are-”

“Well, they do say that great minds think alike,” Crowley quips weakly, as he opens the box. 

He finds himself speechless again, staring down at the ring Aziraphale had gotten for him: a gleaming black band with wings etched in soft rose gold. His hands are shaking slightly as he takes the ring out of the box, and Aziraphale gently takes it from his lax fingers. 

“May I?” At Crowley’s wordless nod, Aziraphale slides the ring onto his finger, the cool metal warming on his skin. “It looks beautiful on you,” Aziraphale says, still clasping Crowley’s hand in his own. 

“My turn,” Crowley says, finally finding his voice. 

Scooping up the ring box he’d given Aziraphale, he pulls out the ring he’d spent long hours agonizing over: silver with diamonds inset along the edges and a sinuous snake etched around the whole of the band. He slides it onto Aziraphale’s finger slowly, projecting all the love he feels, and now it’s Aziraphale’s turn to tear up. 

“Marry me?” Crowley asks, feeling like one of them ought to get the ask the question, and Aziraphale can only nod as he frantically blinks back tears. 

“Only if you’ll marry me,” he finally counters, and Crowley beams at him. 

“Always.”


End file.
